Quotes About Memory

The traces of the dinosaurs howl in our memories. Had they been alive we would have exterminated them, but we respect their traces. It is the same with the human race: the more we imperil it, the more meticulously we preserve its remains.

one should always talk well about oneself! The word spreads around and in the end, noone remembers where it started

In two weeks, despite these notes, I shall no longer believe in what I am experiencing now. One must leave behind a trace of this journey which memory forgets. One must, when this is impossible, write or draw without responding to the romantic solicitations of pain, without enjoying suffering like music, tieing a pen to one's foot if need be, helping the doctors who can learn nothing from laziness.

To be moved confuses the soul. One cannot convey these kinds of memories any more than the events of a dream... ...if I have complained too long, it is because my memory, no longer having any fixed abode, has to carry its luggage with it.

His work kept on living, like the watches on the wrists of dead soldiers. [Said of Marcel Proust]

I kept nothing of myself but the ashes.

Creation seemed to come about in a sort of chain reaction. He did not worry about it; he was determinedly pursuing his task in all its simplicity; but as we went back towards the village I saw water flowing in Brooks that had been dry since the memory of man. This was the most impressive result of chain reaction that I had seen. These dry streams had once, long ago, run with water.

But as more memories built up, crowding and enlarging the storage capacity of their brain, changes came harder. There was no more room for new ideas that would be added to their memory bank, their heads were already too large. Women had difficulty giving birth; they couldn't afford new knowledge that would enlarge their heads even more.

I do not neglect myself, quite the contrary: this morning I took a bath and shaved. Only when I think back over those careful little actions, I cannot understand how I was able to make them, They are so vain. Habit, no doubt, made them for me. They aren't dead, they keep on busying themselves, gently, insidiously weaving their webs, they wash me, dry me, dress me, like nurses. Did they also lead me to this hill? I can't remember how I came anymore.

Where shall I keep mine? you don't put your past in your pocket; you have to have a house. I have only my body: a man entirely alone, with his lonely body, cannot indulge in memories; they pass through him. I shouldn't complain: all I wanted was to be free.

Am vrut ca toate clipele vieÈ›ii mele s? se succead? È™i s? se orânduiasc? asemeni celor dintr-o via?? de care-È›i aminteÈ™ti. E ca È™i cum ai vrea s? încerci a prinde timpul de coad?.

El pasado es un lujo de propietario. ¿Dónde podría conservar yo el mío? Nadie se mete el pasado en el bolsillo; hay que tener una casa para acomodarlo. Mi cuerpo es lo único que poseo; un hombre solo, con su cuerpo, no puede detener los recuerdos; pasan a través de él. No debería quejarme: sólo he querido ser libre.

Your red dress,' she said, and laughed. But I looked at the dress on the floor and it was as if the fire had spread across the room. It was beautiful and it reminded me of something I must do. I will remember I thought. I will remember quite soon now.

Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.

I've had enough of these streets that sweat a cold, yellow slime, of hostile people, of crying myself to sleep every night. I've had enough of thinking, enough of remembering.

And I'll look back at him because I shan't be able to help it, remembering about being young, and about being made love to and making love, about pain and dancing and not being afraid of death, about all music I've ever loved, and every time I've been happy.

Lies are never forgotten, they go on and they grow

If this is a sad story, don't tell it to me tonight.''It is not sad,' she said. 'Only some things happen and are there for always even though you forget why or when.

I can remember every second of that morning, if I shut my eyes I can see the deep blue colour of the sky and the mango leaves, the pink and red hibiscus, the yellow handkerchief she wore around her head, tied in the Martinique fashion with the sharp points in front, but now I see everything still, fixed for ever like the colours in a stained-glass window. Only the clouds move. It was wrapped in a leaf, what she had given me, and I felt it cool and smooth against my skin.

She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.

She was a shadow, kept alive by a flame of hatred for somebody who had long ago forgotten all about her.

Well, there you are. It's not that these things happen or even that one survives them, but what makes life strange is that they are forgotten. Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies. This is what makes life so droll - the way you forget and every day is a new day, and there's hope for everybody, hooray...

There is no control over memory.

Happiness. One day. Ten thousand years ago.